“_We are sick_” says one of the most famous among those who have adopted this method, “_We are sick_”--he is speaking not only of himself but of others--“_We are sick for a stave of the song that our fathers sang._” Turn, therefore, to the dead--who are no longer alive, and with whom no quarrel is to be feared. Make them reappear and lend weight to your contention. Their fame is achieved, and may very possibly support your own. This kind of writing introduces all the elements that most profoundly affect the public: it is mysterious, it is vague, it is authoritative; it is also eminently literary, and I can recall no first-class political appeal of the last fifteen years which has not been cast more or less upon these lines. The subjects you may choose from are numerous and are daily increasing, but for the amateur the best, without any question, is that of Imperialism. It is a common ground upon which all meet, and upon which every race resident in the wealthier part of London is agreed. Bring forward the great ghosts of the past, let them swell what is now an all but universal chorus. Avoid the more complicated metres, hendecasyllables, and the rest; choose those which neither scan nor rhyme; or, if their subtlety baffles you, fall back upon blank verse, and you should, with the most moderate talent, lay the foundation of a permanent success. I will append, as is my custom, a model upon which the student may shape his first efforts, though I would not have him copy too faithfully, lest certain idiosyncrasies of manner should betray the plagiarism. THE IMPERIALIST FEAST. [_A Hall at the_ Grand Oriental. _At a long table are seated innumerable Shades. The walls are decorated with flags of all nations, and a band of musicians in sham uniform are playing very loudly on a daïs._] CATULLUS rises and makes a short speech, pointing out the advantages of Strong Men, and making several delicate allusions to Cæsar, who is too much of a gentleman to applaud. He then gives them the toast of “Imperialism,” to which there is a hearty response. Lucan replies in a few well-chosen words, and they fall to conversation. PETRONIUS--I would be crowned with paper flowers to-night And scented with the rare opopanax, Whose savour leads the Orient in, suggesting The seas beyond Modore. TALLEYRAND-- Shove up, Petronius, And let me sit as near as possible To Mr. Bingoe’s Grand Imperial Band With Thirty-seven Brazen Instruments And Kettle-Drums complete: I hear the players Discourse the music called “What Ho! She Bumps!” LORD CHESTERFIELD--What Ho! She Bumps! Likewise! C’est ça! There’s ’Air! LORD GLENALTAMONT OF EPHESUS (_severely_)--Lord Chesterfield! Be worthy of your name. LORD CHESTERFIELD (_angrily_)--Lord Squab, be worthy of your son-in-law’s.